The Accounts of an Invisible Bystander
by BlackHeartedTigress
Summary: Everything you know has changed. Downworlders reign supreme in a world of human suffering and strife; they decide the laws and control mundanes. Shadowhunters are nothing but lowly assassins, living on the brink of society in abject poverty. And I am here to document it all.


Accounts of an Invisible Bystander:

Fine Wine/ To See Daylight

_Quarter to midnight, 14th September, 2017. Vampires' Palace. _

Many things could be said of Camille Belcourt, but no-one had ever dared to suggest that she lacked style. Of course, she'd have snapped the neck of anyone who tried, but that is entirely beside the point. Tonight Madame Belcourt awaits her evening meal in an extravagant floor-length gown; it wafts down in a scarlet fountain to meet the cold marble demurely, reverentially caressing each curve of her body, knowing its mistress's proud heart. Her posture is that of a lady who knows exactly her worth, her head held high with dignity, demanding respect on sight, and she is fairly relaxed yet attentive.

She is the epitome of perfection to many men. Her delicately curled pale blond hair, falling artfully around her face and shoulders. Her crystalline dark green eyes, with the sultry, seductive flame in them. The sleek curve of her neck.

That perfect little smile graces her mouth in expectation, hearing the slow approaching steps. _Two, _I know she thinks. And doubtless one pair of feet belong to one of her darklings. Darklings, to the fortunate few who are unfamiliar with Downworld, are the servants of vampires, kept as a blood source in the hope their master, or mistress in this case, will turn them into vampires themselves eventually. It is a rare happening though, and most waste away into death. I am reasonably familiar with Madame Belcourt's darklings, and I assume it is Walker this time. He often deals with this sort of business. A hand raps the door sharply, overconfident and arrogant. The Night Lady smiles deeper; she will enjoy this one.

"Come in, my love," she says in a low voice, as if his very presence a secret.

The man enters immediately, in a rush to set eyes on the exquisite woman again. He can still barely believe that she, the most beautiful lady he had ever laid eyes upon, had chosen him. But he quickly reasoned it out through his handsome face and manner, and his expansive wealth. The fool.

"My lady," he murmurs, and drops onto his knees to kiss her white hand. I'd stopped pitying them by now; dear goodness, how pathetic they can be. Really, it is his own fault he's in such a situation. Alas, I must restrain my emotions. This is an account, not a diary.

"I have missed you, oh so terribly. I feared I would never see you again, that you were a some sort of mirage. And now I see you before me again, I can only gaze in dazzled wonder."

"You thought I would tempt you, then disappear without a trace, an evil seductress?" Her voice is soft, no force of accusation behind it.

"No, no, my lady! I merely thought that a woman of your beauty could not possibly exist!" He backtracks quickly, not wishing the breath-taking woman to be offended by his previous words.

"You surely must have a vivid imaginings then, my love, if you thought I was no more than a figment from your mind?"

"Yes, the wildest." He pauses. "Not indecently, though."

She scrutinises him with eyes far more powerful than anyone else's present, and so I will only be able to report from a subjective point of view. Firstly, it is evident the man is nervous, sweat dots his forehead and his cheeks are flushed pink. His hands move constantly, ripping at the collar of his blazer, picking at an uneven nail. Next, I would say, he is not particularly outstanding or unique appearance-wise; his eyes are a dull, murky brown, his dirt-coloured hair slicked back. So why has Madame chosen him? Perhaps his plainness would mean his vanishing would go unnoticed?

"Of course not. A man of your status knows how to control himself, doesn't he?" This man has a position in society then, not some low-life dragged from the streets. I note how careful Madame is to seem submissive, none of her answers a certainty, always a question. But the way she plays the game does vary.

"Well, naturally," he boasts, his ego inflated back to full strength again. "I met your, how shall I say, s_ervant, _as he guided me to you. He seemed quite... attached to you."

"Hmm? Walker?" Her voice is surprised and innocent. "He is nothing but someone to carry out my wishes. I would not dream of entering into any affair with one such as him. Not when there are men such as yourselves looking for company."

"I am glad to hear it, sweet lady, and was not implying that you would return his affections."

Lady Belcourt rises from her gold divan, gesturing for him also to stand. "Now, my love, time for discussion ends. I did not invite you here for idle talk."

A disgusting carnal light enters his mud-like eyes, and yet again can feel no sympathy for this man. If he thought with his brain, instead of choice other parts of his body...

He reaches out and brushes her pale cheek with one of his hands. "Darling..." he breathes.

"Yes?" Her voice is the low purr of a tigress.

"I want to kiss every part of you, cherish every square inch of you..." Revolted, I think, _I would bet my life's earnings you want to do far more than kiss and cherish her..._

"All in due time, my love," she answers lightly, although I know she thinks, _And I want to savour every little drop of blood I can wring from you..._

He steps forward and kisses her, little gentleness in the action. This continues for a short time before his hands are on her dress, and a tiny tearing noise makes me flinch. _How long will she let this go on for?_

"My lady, I cannot but notice how cold you are. Mayhap we should relocate somewhere warmer." He indicates the large bed.

"Oh, but I am warm enough in your arms, my love," she says. She would not degrade herself by sleeping with a mundane.

"Little Camille, there is no need to be so shy."

"Shy? You can be absolutely certain my refusal is not due to my timid nature, _love," _she states, her voice not raised from its previous volume.

"Then what?" He replies, baffled. But I am not. The Lady of the Night is tiring of her charade, and I know she especially loathes anyone deemed unimportant using her forename.

"Your desires are not quite the same as mine."

"I apologise for any assumptions," he begins indignantly, not the least bit repentant, "But have you not invited me to your private bedroom-"

"Be quiet," she cuts him off. "For a short while I thought you were charming. Now you've begun to irritate me."

"I beg your pardon, but I will not be spoken to in such a way-"

"Won't you?" Her voice is bored and lazy now, a cat knowing the mouse is trapped with no chance of escape.

"That is it! I will be leaving now, Madame Belcourt." He turned as if to leave. Grabbing the handle of the door, he tugged. The door rattled, but remained locked. Confused, he whirled to face her. "You had your servant lock me in here. Why in heaven's name would you do that, woman?"

"I do not like to be disturbed when I am eating."

"Eating? But how on earth is any supposed to get in to serve you?" Most people would have picked up on the lethality surrounding Camille Belcourt by now, but not this idiot.

She glided towards him, her dress trailing along the carpet. "Do know why I wear red dresses, my love? It is so my last meal will not look so obvious, if it turns into a struggle." Slipping one finger under his chin, she compelled him to return his gaze to her. Her fangs slips from her gums, and he opens his mouth to scream. She is faster. She clasps a hand over his mouth, and strikes his neck, beginning to drink the liquid that sustains her. He thrashes, similar to how a seal would as its lower half is captured in the jaws of shark, and a thin trickle of blood lands on her gown. Lady Belcourt was not lying.

His death throes dwindle until he can barely lift a hand, and she draws back, running a tongue over her newly reddened lips, savouring the taste of him. I have heard vampires describe the drinking of blood many a time. Hematophagy I think it's called. The consumption of blood. And where mosquitoes and vampire bats may do it for survival, in actual vampires it is synonymous to wine-tasting. I have heard Madame Belcourt remark to her associates on the blood quality of her latest meal; sometimes she would say they were as sweet as honey, others bland, some intoxicating, others sour or salty.

She ends his life with a deceptively soft swipe of her fingers against his neck, and calls for her subjugate, "Walker!"

He stumbles into the room, his face a grey colour as if he is a re-animated corpse. "Yes, my lady?"

"I am finished here. Clean up the mess." With that said she sweeps out of the room, and I quickly follow, with one last glance back at Walker. He has begun harvesting the corpse, presumably for the werewolves.

"There you are Camille, darling. I was beginning to think you would not show. How was Lord Hemlock? Up to your standards I hope?" Alexei de Quincey's voice carries down the hallway. I always keep a safe distance, as vampires have extremely acute hearing. It was fortunate Lady Belcourt was distracted by Hemlock, or she might have heard my controlled but shallow breaths. Lord de Quincey has the same pale pallor as Lady Belcourt, but has arctic-white hair and sharper features. His eyes are almost colourless.

She gives a perfunctory nod instead of a real answer.

Lord de Quincey frowns, but does not pursue the matter. "Monsieur Santiago wishes to speak to us of the werewolves. And of the Shadowhunter rebellion."

She sighs, but it is for no more than effect. A vampire does not need to breathe. "Raphael continues to ask us to debate these matters without ever taking any action. It rather bores me now, Alexei."

"I suggested we declare war on the filthy mongrels and show Shadowhunters where their place in society is, but he persists that we must look for peaceful options." Lady Belcourt takes his arm, and starts a slow walk towards the Grand Hall, the centre of vampire politics. "Then mayhap Raphael is not the right clan leader any more. We may need to... _elect_ a new one." Her voice is breezy, but doesn't hide the undercurrent of cunning. I know her well enough now though to realise this is the intended effect. She never shows anything she does not want to.

"I think you could be right, Camille. We are indeed in need of a shake-up in our politics. We cannot let ourselves be run by a soft-hearted fool."

"Oh, you can be sure I am not soft-hearted, de Quincey," intercedes a new voice, with a different accent to their French and Slavic. "In fact, as soon as I bring to light how you are plotting against me, you will see for yourself how merciless I can be."

"And Camille? What of her treachery?" De Quincey exclaims.

With a predator's smile she drops his arm and joins Lord Santiago's side. "Did you really think I'd help you, Alexei? After your crimes against me? I have been searching for a way to bring you down for the past century, and you have finally provided the perfect excuse."

The vampire looks to escape, but finds himself surrounded by Lord Santiago's clan. The younger-looking vampire, only fourteen when he was turned, smiles angelically. "See the price of betrayal Alexei, before your eyes. We will decide politics without uprisings and revolutions such as noticed in mundane history. Tie him up outside, Portia, Tonio . Let him see the sun for a final time."

And such is the brutality of vampires. They will burn their own for mutiny. I have finished my report on vampires for today though. Tomorrow I will seek out the elusive Shadowhunters.

**Don't you just love vampires? Aren't they so terribly romantic- I mean who wouldn't want to have their blood sucked and be burnt to death? Anyway, tell me what you think- I'll post the next chapter if I get 5 reviews.**

**Alexei de Quincey is from the Infernal Devices Trilogy, for anyone who doesn't recognise the name, although he is only a minor part to this story. **


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